Hi there. We’re about sixty day from the release of BACK TO BROOKLYN, and the publisher said it was OK to release an excerpt. Here’s a quick example of the kind of humor you can look forward to in the book. I promise it won’t give away the plot.
If you haven’t yet taken advantage, you can still pre-order the ebook for $3.99 before it goes up to $8.99 on 5/22, the release day.
Here’s all the links you’ll need to score a quick copy:
The Trade Paper and Hardcover editions are available for pre-order as well. The audiobook will be available on 5/22.
Son of Zeus
It took Vinny about an hour to shower, dress, and get down to the police precinct. He shoved the doors open and charged into the vestibule. He hurried to the counter and presented his business card. “Vincent Gambini. I’m here to see Detective Parikh.”
The desk officer scrutinized his business card, then examined Vinny’s face. “Wait right here,” he said as he turned and walked through the door to the inner office.
Vinny drummed his fingers on the counter while he waited for the officer to return.
He didn’t have to wait very long. “Detective Parikh is on the phone,” the desk officer said and pointed to a row of chairs lining the wall. “Have a seat.”
“Have a seat?” he asked.
“That’s what I said. Have a seat.”
Vinny reluctantly found a chair and sat down in the only available spot, between an oversized woman and a man in a tracksuit wearing a cervical collar.
Scarcely a minute had passed before the man with the neck brace made his acquaintance. “Hey, man, you look like a lawyer. You a lawyer?”
“Yeah,” Vinny replied without looking. “I’m a lawyer. I’m here to meet with a client.” He turned his head, noticed the neck brace, and offered his hand. “Vincent Gambini, Attorney at Law. I specialize in personal injury cases. And who might you be, my seriously maimed friend?”
“Hercules Lopez. I’m here because a detective is questioning one of my employees. I hope she don’t get booked.”
“Hercules, huh? That’s an interesting name.”
“I got a brother named Apollo and a sister named Aphrodite, too. My father’s from Puerto Rico but my mother’s from Athens.”
“Oh. I see. Your neck looks pretty bad, Hercules. What the hell happened?”
“Some woman was chasing me down Eighty-sixth Street under the elevated train tracks when I slipped and did a number on my neck.”
“I see. And now I suppose you’d like to sue this broad who was chasing you?”
“Not exactly. You see, man, I want to sue JPMorgan Chase.”
Lopez nodded, his movement greatly restricted by the brace. “Right. The bank.”
“And how is it you feel the bank is responsible for your injury?”
“Well you know, I blacked out from the fall, but when I came to, the first thing I saw was the great big electric Chase sign in front of me and I swore, ‘JPMorgan Chase, those no good sons of bitches.’”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Hercules, but I fail to see what the bank had to do with your slip and fall.”
“Mr. Gambini, is it?”
“I fell in front of the bank and there was some slippery shit on the sidewalk, some grease or something. You’re a lawyer. Can’t you prove that the bank was negligent? I mean it’s their responsibility to keep the street in front of the bank clean, isn’t it?”
“Negligent of what?”
“Like I said—the slippery goddamn grease that made me fall.”
“Do you know for a fact that JPMorgan Chase was responsible for the slippery grease being there? Did you take a sample of this slippery grease or do you possess some other evidence that I could use to prove your claim in a court of law?”
“Shit, man, it’s a big goddamn bank. Even a settlement has got to be good for six figures. Shouldn’t it? I hate those bastards anyway. They turned me down for a mortgage.”
“Oh, I see. You’re unhappy with the bank because of a credit decision you disagreed with and now you figure you’ll screw them on some trumped up personal injury case? Is that about the size of it?”
“What they did to me wasn’t right. I’m a businessman. I’ve got cash. Those bastards discriminated against me.”
“And how exactly did they do that?”
“Some mumbo jumbo about something called debt ratios.”
“That’s not all that unusual, Hercules. Banks have these things they need before they’ll agree to lend you money.”
“I’ve got things. What kind of things do they want?”
“Things like assets, provable documented income, acceptable credit, collateral…things. Anyway, I thought you said you were in some kind of business. How is it you had such an issue with your debt ratios?”
“I am in business, and I’m making a killing.”
“I guess I should ask what kind of business you’re in.”
“I’m in the package business.” He reached into his pocket and handed Vinny a business card that simply read: “Delivering the goods, Manhattan to Montauk.” It had a phone number and website address.
“So, you’re in the freight business, like UPS or FedEx, correct?”
“Not exactly.” He edged closer. “Packages, man. Packages.” He paused for a moment. “Picture this, Mr. Gambini. The wife is out of town and you’re feeling lonely. You call me and I deliver a hot little package.”
“What’s in this…package? Something to put a smile on my face like freshly baked muffins or a tin of Moose Munch?”
“I don’t get it. What’s in these packages?”
“Come on,” Lopez said. “You know, man.”
“No, I don’t know. Anyway, how much do you charge to deliver one of these packages?”
“From two hundred anywhere up to five hundred…depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“Depending on what kind of package you want.”
Vinny grew weary of the conversation. “Okay, Hercules. Humor me for a minute. Hypothetically speaking, let’s pretend that I need a package. So, I call you up and I say, ‘Hercules, I’m all alone and I’ve got absolutely nothing to do. Send me over a package.’ And you say…”
“What kind of package would you like, Mr. Gambini?”
“What kind of packages do you got, Hercules?”
“Bronze, silver, and gold.”
“And I say, ‘Let’s go for broke. Send me over one of your top-of-the-line special gold packages.’ How long does it take for said gold package to arrive? A day or two? Does it come overnight or by standard delivery?”
“Super priority rush.”
“What’s that mean?”
“About an hour—door to door.”
“Whoa. That’s pretty fast. All right, let’s say an hour passes. There’s a knock on the door. I open the door and the package gets delivered. What did I get?”
“Morena, a six-foot tall Boricua with an ass that moves up and down like it’s on ball bearings, bleach blonde hair extensions, big-ass titties, a whip, and a quart of Astroglide.”
“Oh.” Vinny said. “Now I get it. You’re a pimp.”
“I see. And the reason Chase wouldn’t give you a mortgage loan is because you’re in a cash business and couldn’t document your income.”
Lopez winked. “Now you’ve got it.”
“And that young woman who was chasing you down Eighty-sixth Street when you slipped on that slippery grease and fell in front of the bank—that wasn’t by chance Morena, the ravishing six-foot tall Puerto Rican hoe with giant, massive silicone-augmented breasts, was it? And could it have been the lube from her quart-size bottle of Astroglide that you slipped on?”
“No way, Mr. Gambini.”
“The girl chasing me was Sophie, a fifty-year-old Polish woman with a hip replacement and a lazy eye. She’s strictly bronze package, and she don’t come with no free bottle of lube.”